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Transcript

M■1■1■11■
Bethel College 3900 Bethel Drive Saint Paul, Minnesota
Passages is not a yearbook nor is it
a literary magazine. It is unique,
escaping traditional definitions.
Students wrote, photographed and
edited Passages to describe some of
the experiences of a large portion (but
by no means all) of Bethel students.
The creation of Passages has been
difficult. Each step in the planning and
composition was a new and experi-mental
attempt to depict the struggles
college students face. The four
characters are fictional representa-tions.
Like Bethel students they are
growing and changing. Their attitudes
and perspectives are affected by the
people and situations they encounter.
Such change is never easy.
Photography was selected to
complement the characters' feelings
and experiences. The result is more
than a picture book with four separate
essays. It is a glimpse of what happens
inside Bethel students as they deal
with feelings and experiences. The text
is intended to represent its audience,
Bethel students; the hope is that
readers will be able to identify with and
learn something from Passages.
I was a Bethel student a while back.
When isn't important. Let's just say that
I've been around a long time. It's exciting
to make friends with students; the experi-.
ence of each individual is unique within
the context of the college. So much goes
on in a person's life in the years spent at
college. Thousands of students can go
through the same institution and derive
radically different experiences. The key to
understanding these experiences lies in
reserving judgment and being com-passionate.
Prejudices and misunder-standings
arise out of unwillingness to
truly see the situations of others.
I have four friends at Bethel who are
willing to reveal part of their thoughts and
feelings to you, so you'll have a window
into their minds. Perhaps you'll learn
something about yourself and your
friends.
P S D
Your freshman year of college is an un-forgettable
experience filled with
paradoxes: excitement and disappoint-ment,
new friends and homesickness,
responsibility and overwhelming de-mands.
The experience forces this
person to redefine herself as an individual,
developing a new perspective on who
she is and what she'd like to be.
Loneliness ... a word I never thought
I'd have to learn, is becoming all too
real to me. My past doesn't matter here.
I'm alone now with my memories —
memories no one can see.
"College will be good for you —
you'll really grow up," someone told
me. Right. How can emotional pain and
tears help me become a better person?
I thought I could easily fit into new
social groups; it had come so easily
before. I had been out to enjoy college
life to its fullest. Until now.
Far too much of me remains in the
past. I had so much at home — great
family, friends, talents . .. where are
those things now? Must I be forced to
prove myself over and over? The
glances here are cold, categorizing.
Yet I am no different. My eyes are cold.
I build my own brick walls around the
secret area labeled "Me."
Me, me, me. My priorities are
hurting. I have to look out for myself—
no one else will. When classes began, I
suddenly needed every moment to
keep up with the syllabuses. I've been
so overwhelmed with the basic assign-ments.
Is there a balance between
those people I'd like to know and the
five Psych. chapters I have to know?
There's so much freedom ... I can do
anything! No one is going to make me
get up for my 8:00 class. I'd like to be
everyone's friend and have a super
time . . . only one thing stands in my
way. Along with the freedom comes
added responsibility. I'm expected to
show up in FA313 at 12:30, and finish a
paper by Thursday . . . I do feel
pressure to study; isn't that what I pay
for? But ... the decisions are up to me!
Me. Me again. Is it wrong to be self-centered?
I'm just trying to protect
myself. I purposely seal myself in
books, isolating myself from the very
people I long to meet. After all, caring
often brings pain, and I don't want to
get hurt. With a thousand faces here
looking out for themselves as much as I
am, I begin to wonder if I want them as
friends. Maybe I should give myself a
chance. And while I'm at it, maybe I
should give them a chance too. It takes
time.
P.S.D.
Not seeing any familiar faces in the
cafeteria today, I sat with a new group
of people for lunch. They chattered as
if they'd been friends for life. They half-heartedly
tried to make me feel more
comfortable by using short conversa-tion
starters. "So, what'd you say your
name was?"
I was a stranger in their clique. I felt
helpless, vulnerable to their judgment.
Why was I unable to enter their conver-sation?
I felt inferior, inept.
P.S.D. P S D
Later in the lounge, I found myself
with friends from classes and the dorm.
How different I felt. I spoke with ease,
almost dominating the conversation.
Yet I still felt odd, noting an air of
superiority in my voice. Did these
people "measure up?" Sure, they were
a solace after being rejected, but they
just weren't my type. I try not to label
others, yet found myself in the midst of
doing it.
Lunch time still stings. Perhaps they
sized me up, discarding my personality
as I have discarded others. Ouch. I'd
never really been tossed out like that,
and must admit I didn't like it.
I'm discovering so many parts of
myself I have never seen before, like
insensitivity.
Maybe I am learning something
here. Maybe it has to do with "growing
up." My parents keep writing, wanting
so badly to be part of my experiences. I
want to keep in touch, but . . . now that
I think about it, what would I say?
"Hi. I love Bethel. College is every-thing
I had hoped it to be and more ..."
That would reassure them. I know they
long for me to take advantage of the
opportunities they never had, and I
want to. I'd love to be Miss Popularity,
bring a "nice young gentleman" home
to Mom, and even get decent grades to
justify the financial pressure. But I
didn't immediately fall into the social
arena and guys seem only a fantasy.
Grades — well, lately all I do is study ...
Perhaps I should close my letter, "Your
daughter, the social zero."
Dad wrote, "We hope it is God's will
for you to remain at Bethel . ." That
caught me off-guard. I never wondered
whether or not it was God's Will for me
to be here.
Is it God's will that I be so incredibly
lonely? It can't be! How could He
expect me to want to do His will when it
obviously leaves me with so much
pain? Why didn't I think of it before? I
can pray about it; just give Him my
social dilemmas and leave it to His
power to drop the right people and
opportunities in my lap. I wasted my
time trying to do it on my own, when
God could have done it so much better
. . . and maybe faster!
Days come and go swiftly. It seems
I've been here for years when it's only
been a few months.
I expected opportunities to come
from all directions, yet grew frustrated
with people who had the courage to
grab the opportunities before they
passed.
The people here don't care about
who I was. They want to know who I am
now, a person I have yet to show them.
Where did my confidence go?
I expected God to fill my orders. I
know that He opens the doors, but I
must step through them. I wonder how
many opportunities He's given to me? I
let others take the initiative while I sit,
waiting for the "right" time. My image
of Him has been confused. Realizing
my own foolishness, I lower my head.
"Lord, my confidence is failing ... and
my faith in you waivers. I tried to use
You for my own benefit, to satisfy my
need for friendship. I'm so sorry. Help
me to focus on You. Never on me."
I felt myself growing these past few
weeks, becoming less and less the me
of September, and more the me of
tomorrow. "Me" is no longer the center
of my life, but is slowly being replaced
by Someone far greater, and more
worthy of the position.
I can see changes already. I'm
surprised at the new person I'm
becoming . . . a person I would never
have dreamed to be. I know I'm not
finished — only en route. I wonder what
lies ahead. God's courses are never
easy for me. There is so much still to be
learned and I am so unwilling to be
taught. Yet I cannot fear what's ahead.
God will teach and guide me and I'll be
able to look back and see the results.
Today I must live in the present,
grasping what I can from each day,
collecting the impressions that will
become a permanent part of the ever-changing
me; laughing and learning,
hurting and healing, but always,
always me.
S.S.
P. S.D
P.S.D.
D.B .
My minority friends at Bethel encounter
unique problems difficult for average
students to understand. Forming com-fortable
interracial relationships is par-ticularly
hard. Unfortunately they are often
disappointed when their expectations are
broken by the reality of their experience.
I feel out of place here, there's no
way around it.
Thinking back on it, I'm not sure
what I expected to find here. I had
D B
some vague conception of Bethel
being a kind of holy haven for saintly
people. I always had the hope that the
differences between me and other
people here would be bridged by our
common unity in Christ.
But I'm here now and I'm not so sure.
Just walking through the halls I can tell
D B
the people here aren't used to seeing
blacks at Bethel. Some people avoid
me deliberately. Some come up and try
to talk to me just because I'm different.
I can't blend in, I always stick out.
Sometimes I wonder, do I really want
to stay here badly enough to put up
with this?
It's good to have some brothers here.
Even if it's just one or two, at least I
have someone to talk to who knows
where I'm coming from. Some people
seem annoyed at the way we always
hang around together, but I'm just
happy I'm not completely alone here,
and that there are a few people I can
really depend on.
D8
Today I was talking to a guy and he
asked me why I came to Bethel. I
started thinking about how to tell him,
but the more I thought about it, the
more I was aware of the incredible gap
between my perspective on the world
and that of most of the people here.
I wanted to ask him if there were
people in his home community who
stole food for their dinner, or if he had
friends who had been beaten by police,
or if he'd ever lived in a ghetto. Of
course I knew he hadn't. He would
never know what it was to be on the
bottom of a system that was determined
to hold him down. How can he ever
understand the urgent drive I have to
better myself, and to help my people?
I just changed the subject.
There are some people here who are
different, who just accept me as a
human being. They understand that I
didn't come here to cause trouble or to
make people paranoid. They give me
hope that the barriers separating
people can be torn down.
I guess maybe I'm crazy, but there's
this one girl that I really like. She
doesn't act fakey with me. She doesn't
make me feel like a freak when she
talks to me. It's a relief to know I can be
natural with her, and not worry about
playing little games all the time. In fact,
I've been thinking about asking her
out. I know it doesn't often happen that
a white girl will go out with a black guy.
I think maybe it's different with her. It
would be really good for me to be able
to go out with someone and just have a
good time and relax and be myself.
I could almost hear the doors crash-ing,
bringing my little fantasy to an
abrupt and gut-wrenching end. One
look from her and it all came back to
me, like a bad dream that turns out to
be real: people are arranged in their
own groups. Those who try to cross the
lines get stepped on.
One minute we were talking freely
and I felt confident in our friendship.
Then she would not look at me. She
tried to talk but only stammered. I felt a
sickening coldness in my gut. I stub-bornly
demanded to know why she
would not go out with me. I made her
tell me. She said her parents don't want
her going out with black guys, though
of course they're not racist.
I am drained. I have no energy left to
argue, and nothing left to say. D
There is constant tension here for
me, because I am not in my environ-ment.
I am constantly aware of my
family and home community, as if my
people's eyes were fixed on me from a
distance, their collective expectations I
came from.
At the same time, I am aware of the
eyes of people here. I will always stand
out among them, and nothing I do goes
unnoticed.
So, I am on stage here, I am
performing for audiences. But I have
become used to the eyes, I have
learned to live with the tension. It's
almost like being on the court with my
team down on points. The odds are
against winning, but I cannot allow
myself to lose. Right now I've got the
ball and I can see my goal. I must
negotiate the opposition as best I can,
but I can't quit while I still have a
chance.
How should I react to people?
Should I hate them, showing my
hostility? Should I bend over backwards
to prove that I'm harmless? Or maybe I
D.B .
should just try to ignore them, though
that's not always easy either.
Sometimes I wish I could confront
them all, and see how they would
answer. Do they really believe we are
all brothers and sisters? Do they
believe we are all equal under the same
God, a God who knows what really
goes on inside people?
I wish they would really face these
questions; then I could begin to hope. D. W.
J.M.
P.S.D.
A great deal of learning at college is
non-academic. Values are sifted and
arranged with eyes focused on the future
as it fits with truth learned today. This
woman finds the formation of her ideals
most intensely challenged in the tension
between Bethel and the rest of our
world.. .
Sept. 17
This evening, between some fruitless
hours in the library and catching the
Silvercrest bus, I went to the bathroom.
After I sounded the roar of the toilet,
suddenly, silence . . . I felt the absence
of all my worries. All alone, I hummed
some low notes, and rich acoustics
surrounded me. (It sounds like I'm
talking about Nirvana!) Then I had a
stare-down with myself in the mirror
and asked, "Why do I always feel so
relaxed in public restrooms?"
Still don't know. On the bus my mind
whirled like a top. Images ricocheted
in my head, from the chapel singer, to
the dining room, to FA 313 — all over
the campus — and between all these, in
kaleidoscope fashion, appeared faces
and shacks I had seen last summer
around the Appalachian mission. Wish
every student could do SMP.
Sometimes I wonder what Gretchen
would think if she walked around
Bethel. Working in the coal mines got
her nothing but dirty lungs. I hope all is
well with her.
Sept. 20
. . . Why can't men just say what they
mean! Tom made me so frustrated in
the Lemon Lounge today. If he feels
hurt because Kathy isn't interested in
him, why does he beat around the
bush?
I can just picture some guy writing in
his journal tonight, "Why can't women
just say what they mean?" Any rate, it's
easier to decipher Egyptian hiero-glyphics
than to translate what some
guys say.
P.S.D.
P.S.D.
P.S.D.
Sept. 28
. . . Finally figures out why I like
public restrooms. On my C-mod.
break, having made a jaunt to the
women's room by Doc's, it occurred to
me that public restrooms have no
"particular" connection with their
location, except for a few pipes. Har
Mar Theaters, Perkins' Steak and
Cake, and Bethel could all swap rest-rooms
and life would go on as usual.
So why am I so fond of them? Some-how,
Bethel's bathrooms join me with
the whole world. Since last summer,
the notion of living in two worlds has
bothered me. I want to live in one world
— the world God made. Otherwise I'll
end up being two people. I may be
weird, but what of it? Everybody is
weird. And blessed are those who don't
mind themselves.
Oct. 21
. . . Hot debate in Human Devel.
today — lifestyle issue. Class buzzed
like a beehive. Right now I'm more into
"life" rather than "style." Thought of
this Steve Turner poem:
History repeats itself.
Has to.
No one listens.
. Idea for Senior Sem. Psych. paper:
examine what things change or don't
change in a person as they age.
Nov. 22
Unusual dream last night. In a large
hall swarming with stock-exchange-like
men, I saw four women undergo a
mock execution. Lined up against the
wall, the four displayed a calmness that
overwhelmed me. The men jeered,
shaming the women for being women.
In suit and tie, nobody suspected
me, yet I shook like a leaf, pacing
everywhere. I knew the women, and I
wanted to help, but couldn't.
Then the hall turned into a party
room. Same people, including more
women my age were dancing and
eating their hearts out. I was still
shaking, but I felt everyone else
denying the event.
Better get to class. P.S.D.
Nov. 3
Last Sat. night went to a costume
party. ( Dressed up as a woman who
ran out of gas — showed up with a two-gallon
gas tank.) Sort of fun. A lot of
new faces, not to mention the masks.
Later on during the party, when most
begin to mellow down, a handful got
P.S.D.
their second-wind to hyper up. Actual-ly,
some of them got obnoxious. Then
this girl got on my nerves. Funny thing
— she reminded me of myself in past
years.
For the rest of the evening, my
thoughts wouldn't stop knifing the
people around me. "This guy is as
P.S.D.
callous as a camel's knee. That girl
could have a lobotomy and nobody
would know the difference. That guy
eats like a grazing cow: non-stop."
Why do I tear into people like that,
and even enjoy it? Do I think I'm better
just because I see things a little
differently? .. .
P.S.D. P.S.D.
wj t
P.S.D.
Dec. 11
Final exams next week, then just one
more semester! And it's snowing out —
God's dandruff. I'm so happy today I
could do a cartwheel in the coffee
shop!
I'm younger now than I was three
years ago. Gretchen wrote to me again.
Replying to my "urban treadmill" letter,
she wrote, ". . take time to be yourself
— to do the things that pleased you as a
child."
Hours later, I was cutting out favorite
pictures from National Geographics.
P.S.D .
What fun — taping ferns and sea shells
on notebooks, and scenes of the
Sahara on my wall. Rest of the evening
I just sat around and enjoyed my own
company. Didn't even think of watch-ing
T.V.
Jan. 14
Took a #4 bus from Silvercrest to
Uptown Theater. Two potent movies.
One was about Jewish resistance in
the Warsaw ghetto. Felt numb all the
way home.
What's the holocaust got to do with
my life at college? I see stuff like that
and it grips me to the bone ... but what
then? On the one hand I feel like I gotta
get up and fight something; on the
other hand, I'm this student who eats
three meals a day, studies in a cozy
college, and plans how to make
enough bucks when I graduate.
Jan. 20
A friend of mine was raped near her
apartment. I'm very sad and very mad.
Another friend just gave birth to a
healthy little boy. How do both things
fit in the same world?
Mere words and phrases no longer
satisfy me. They distance me. I want to
feel my questions first — to be touched
by the tragedy and joy of another —
and maybe then, maybe I can begin to
touch back.
T.L.
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Bethel can be a crucial turning point in
a young person's spiritual life. The con-flict
of old ideas with new concepts and
world views can cause faith to both
shatter and blossom. My friend is a
beautiful example of a student moving
from broken beliefs to higher levels of
insight and commitment during his years
at Bethel.
All through class I've had this sinking
feeling growing in my gut. I've always
tried to be open-minded, but I just
don't know how to deal with what I am
hearing. The word "evolution" has
never been used in my home without at
least a note of disdain, and the concept
has never been discussed in my
presence without being soundly refut-ed,
with its adherents designated to the
ranks of the lost.
The prof might as well try to get me
to do dope as teach me about the
theory of evolution. I feel my very being
rebelling against his words. I am
amazed at the cunning of the Enemy in
convincing intelligent Christians to fall
into such obvious fallacies.
D B
I have an idea that makes my head
reel with its sheer simplicity and
urgency. I can get a Bible and read the
creation account from Genesis to the
prof. All the humanistic rationalizing in
the world cannot stand up to the
beautiful power and wisdom of that
simple passage ... A nervous conviction
quickly replaces the empty sinking
feeling which had taken hold of me. Of
course I will be respectful, but I could
never live with myself if I were to let
unchallenged ideas like this one go,
especially here in a Christian college.
Maybe I'm just losing my nerve, but
something prevents me from bluntly
confronting my prof, some undefined
hunch that there might be more to this
than I have yet seen. It's not that I'm
losing my faith, it's just that it's not like
me to do anything too quickly. Anyway,
nothing will be lost if I take some time
to think things through. After all, that's
what I'm in college for.
D B
Lying awake, thinking things through,
my roommate stumbles in at about 1:30
a.m. I didn't need the light to know
what he'd been up to. As soon as he
shoved the door open I was rudely
assaulted with the olfactory evidence
of some heavy partying, and not of the
Baptist variety.
He snaps the light on anyway, and I
am instantly wide awake with anger. I
lie staring tight-lipped at the ceiling as
my roommate clumsily prepares to
pass out. I'm not thinking about
evolution and misled profs anymore.
It's not that I have never known any-one
who smokes and drinks. There
were plenty like that back in high
school, though I deliberately stayed
out of that scene. I just never thought I
would see this kind of thing at a
Christian college. I mean, really, what's
a guy like this doing at Bethel? He
knows the rules, doesn't he? Why
come here and cause trouble?
Do I really want to go through with
it? The more I think about it, the more I
realize that I'm not really mad at the
guy anymore. That kind of bothers me,
because I think I probably should be
mad.
D.B. I was too outraged to say anything to
my roommate the other night about his
behavior. But after some contempla-tion
I've decided I really should say
something to the R.A. Not that I like
telling on people, I really don't. But I
just can't let that kind of rebellion
continue without doing something.
Well, Christ wouldn't let something like
that go on. I mean, someone that drove
the moneychangers out of the temple
would send a guy like my roommate
back to whatever sinhole he came
from, or at least demand some dramatic
improvement in his behavior.
DB
D.B.
What would Christ do in my shoes? I
hate to admit it, but now I can't decide.
DB
So what does God really want from
people anyway? It seems ridiculous
that after all these years of calling
myself a Christian I could still be
asking that question. When I think of
my life, it just seems like a confusing
stream of do's and don'ts, and when it
comes to making important decisions
I'm stumped half the time. And when
I'm not stumped, I usually find out later
that I goofed.
All I really know for sure is that I'm
supposed to do something called
"love." But that seems too abstract. I
mean, sure I love God and people and
so forth, but so what? So I get gushy
feelings, and sometimes I help people
(if it's not too inconvenient).
Actually it's easier just to follow
some do's and don'ts than to make the
effort to find out what it means to love
in every situation. I can just try to be
reasonable and do what people expect
of me. I can approve and condemn
according to the norms of this Christian
society, and that way I'll stay out of
trouble.
DB
D. B. DB
But approving and condemning
people isn't the point. Neither is
staying out of trouble. The real issue is
living out the act of love.
So what is love?
When the prof began talking about
"unconditional positive regard" it
seemed a rather simple concept. It
somehow seems very crucial, even
very Christian (and this is a psychology
class). People need to know that no
matter what they do, their value as
human beings will not be questioned.
My circuits are humming. Uncondition-al
positive regard sounds suspiciously
like a Biblical concept, an elusive yet
crucial phenomenon called love.
education that is costing thousands of
dollars a year. But for me it has cosmic
implications. All the time, money and
effort begin to look like they might be
worth it, not because I will emerge from
college a competent professional, but
because I might be learning something
about carrying out the greatest impera-tive
in the universe — love.
J.M.
necessary for psychological stability,
and loving is an imperative for
Christians. I sense a dynamic link
between the two concepts.
I guess I should be careful not to
over-simplify the concept of love. And
maybe equating unconditional positive
regard with love seems like a rather
simplistic idea to gather from an
Every student's passage through Bethel
could be a chapter in this book. They
would all be unique, while sharing con-cerns
common to many. Each would be
as authentic and full of painful, but worth-while
change as the people portrayed in
Passages. This process of change links
all college experience; it doesn't stop
here, though. You've seen only portions of
people and experience in these pages; in
a sense, each of you who read this must
complete it in your own passage through
Bethel into the remainder of your life.
Editor: Leann M. Kicker
Photography editor: Doug Barkey
Assistant editor: Rhonda G. Runion
Assistant photography
editor: Patti S. Dobson
Writers: Suzy Shelley
Jerry Manus
Ted Lewis
Advisors: Alvera Mickelson
Dale Johnson
Layout and Design: Doug Barkey
Patti S. Dobson
Contributors: Greg Barkey
Don Copeland
Lamar Driver
Thor Hansen
Debbie Kiser
Jane Saari
Curt Stoesz
Dan Velie
Tom Vukelich
Mike Woodcock
Don Woodward
Cover Photograph: Doug Barkey
We honor Barbara Lee Burton's passage
through Bethel and commemorate her
final passage from this life.